Island of the Swans (84 page)

“Alex!”

Roughly, he folded her into his arms. She could feel his intense arousal through his satin breeches.

“You knew you excited me tonight, didn’t you, wench?” he whispered. “And you are perfectly aware you’re exciting me right now,
aren’t
you?” he added, seductively pressing his groin against her skirts.

She had to admit that his kisses still had the power to arouse her, just as her appearance at the ball obviously had excited him. After all, she thought bitterly to herself, he had been without the charms of Jean Christie for some weeks now.

As Alex skillfully caressed her breasts through her gown’s thin fabric, Jane felt an odd detachment steal over her, a wariness invade her soul, a kind of protective shield envelop her. She experienced the old, familiar heat seeping into her body, making her moist and receptive, but somehow she stood apart, as if watching two people, expert in the art of lovemaking, go through the motions of making love.

Alex didn’t seem to sense anything amiss. He nuzzled her neck and began to remove the pins fastening her coiffure.

“Still so beautiful,” he murmured, inhaling the scent of lavender she always wore. “I love the smell of you… the way you taste.” He licked with a serpent’s tongue the flesh stretched across her collarbone. He pulled his body away from her to stare into her eyes. “I want to smell you, Jane Maxwell… taste every crevice. Right now.”

Unable to summon any more protests, she allowed him to strip her of her clothing, carry her to the bed, and deposit her on the feather mattress.

While he quickly shed his own clothes, he continued his verbal seduction, evoking erotic images describing the manner in which he intended to give her pleasure this night. There was no help for it, she thought, feeling herself sucked into a vortex of artful caresses, lavish praise, and whispered promises.

When she attempted to reach out to him, to return his voluptuous embrace, he merely brushed her hands aside. He was the sculptor. She was the clay. He was the master… she, the pampered slave. At length, she gave herself up to his total control of their lovemaking, luxuriating in it—and yet she felt despair.

Surprisingly, when she could fight him no longer, her climax was intense. For Alex had known her most intimate secrets and called on that knowledge to bear witness to his own prowess in pleasing her, in pleasing any woman, she supposed. Theirs was still a battle of wits, she thought sadly as she lay by his side, her breathing slowly returning to normal. His head rested on her breast. Absently, she brushed a lock of his dark hair, burnished, now, with a faint dusting of silver. The battle between them still raged—and, no doubt, it always would.

“Come back to Fochabers,” his voice said huskily into the darkness.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Perhaps his making love to her this night had not been merely in lieu of having his mistress beside him. Perhaps it was his only form of apology for all the pain he’d caused.

He reached toward the bedside table, found the flint, and struck it. The candle’s light cast a mellow wash upon the pale silk walls. Alex turned back to her and took her by the wrist, kissing her pulse point.

“Be my own true wife again,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve almost twenty-two stormy years to our credit. We’ll ride this out.” When she didn’t respond, he smiled crookedly and shook his head. “As you’ve come to discover, dearheart, running two households is simply unmanageable, and with Kinrara, we’d have three! By any measure, you’ll need to draw upon my bank drafts to marry off your daughters in style. You’d best remarry me first.”

The perpetual turmoil of her life with Alex bubbled like a cauldron.

Come back to Fochabers.

It had been difficult to live in London, a woman alone, prey to every lecher and ne’er-do-well who considered a woman unprotected by her husband to be fair game. It had been taxing to count every farthing and still come up short, no matter how hard she tried to economize. It was damned unnerving to make decisions about the children’s futures without being able to consult Alex. And his treatment of Louisa, though perhaps understandable, was beneath her contempt.

If truth be told, she was tired of being the one to shoulder all the responsibility—and yet, hadn’t she done that even when she was
with
Alex? In order to glean a modicum of comfort during their years together, she’d assumed the entire emotional burden of their life together as man and wife. Because of her enduring love for another man, she had always assumed that everything missing between Alex and herself was
her
responsibility.

Jane stared at the canopy over her head and wondered what life with Alex would have been like if Thomas had actually died in the Indian massacre? Wouldn’t Alex have
still
been jealous of Robert Burns? Wouldn’t he have harbored suspicions of her friendship with William Pitt? Would he ever, under any circumstances, have encouraged her interest in politics and state affairs?

And what of his long periods of emotional withdrawal when she made her own desires known? Would he ever have found her involvement in social and political life appropriately feminine or “suitable?”

Jane bit her lip, lost in thought, unaware that Alex was staring at her, looking perplexed.

The Duke of Gordon is who he is
, she concluded ruefully. Little would have changed that—and little could. It was simply out of her control.

Accept him as he is, and stay… or accept him as he is, and leave
, a small voice whispered.

Jane suddenly recalled the memory of Louisa’s tear-filled eyes earlier in the evening. She glanced toward the darkness engulfing the corners of the chamber. She found herself taking a mental inventory of the ways in which she had assumed responsibility all her life for things that were not hers to influence. All she could master, she realized, was
herself.
All she could do was ask for what she wanted in life. Whether she
got
what she wanted depended on what kind of company she kept.

Come back to Fochabers.

Alex’s slender fingers gently touched the damp valley between her breasts.

“Well?” he asked softly. “Will you no come back ag’in?” he whispered in a teasing Scottish brogue.

Jane gazed at him somberly through the gloom of their bedchamber.

“I-I would consider becoming your wife again in deed, as well as name, if you’ll do two things for me, Alex,” she replied quietly.

“And they are…?” he inquired warily.

“Be kinder to Louisa… ’tis not her fault her presence pains you so.”

“And your other request?” he asked, without acceding to her first.

“Send Jean Christie and the child away.”

Alex suspended his gentle caresses. Silence filled the bedchamber.

“I can understand your not wanting to have Jean Christie in our lives, because I feel the same way about Louisa, sometimes. As I am sure you can understand, I will not abandon a child of mine.”

“I do not ask you to abandon your child,” Jane said carefully. “I want you to provide amply for them both, but I’m asking you to send Jean Christie and the child away.”

“Dear God!” Alex exploded. “Why do you always have to make everything so damn difficult? ’Tis not the Gordon way! We do not hide our children behind a cloak of shame and hypocrisy!”

“No,” Jane snapped, pulling the bed linen under her arms and sitting straight up in bed. “You brag about them! You flaunt them. They puff you up!”

“What the
Devil
are you talking like this for?” he cried, losing his temper. “You raised my George… and I, your Louisa. Damn it, Jane! We’ve been over this before—”

“I
will not
raise someone else’s child you’ve brought into this world as
punishment
for something I didn’t do!” she shouted back at him, pounding the mattress in frustration. “I didn’t cuckold you with Thomas in Edinburgh that night, nor with Robert Burns
ever
! I’ve been no light o’ love to Pitt! And I will no longer allow you to punish Louisa and me for what I
did
do for love at a time when you were bullying and berating me at every turn! The
bloody
muddle of our marriage is not only
my
doing—but you’ve never been willing to claim
your
part in this wretched mess!”

Alex averted his eyes and remained silent. Jane leaned toward him, touching his arm with her hand. Her voice was low and almost gentle.

“I am so weary, Alex, of trying to fathom what’s gone amiss when you’re angry or upset or simply moody. I’ve finished with wondering if you’ll ever change your unpredictable ways—or wishing you’d be kind to me or gentle with me and Louisa. I’m through with wondering if you’ll ever trust me and do something that is in
my
interest only—
just once
!”

When he refused to respond, Jane leapt from the bed and threw on her dressing gown to cover her nakedness.

“You never comprehended that about me, did you, Alex? You were so like my parents in that regard. You never took note that I respond pathetically well to a little kindness, a little understanding. You said when last we parted that I was
‘too much trouble’…
and how
much
trouble I must have seemed to you.”

“Jane, I didn’t mean that to sound—”

Jane waved at him distractedly and began to pace the room.

“I’ve thought about those words for months… and I’ve decided… ’tis
true.
I
was
trouble, as you said, because I was part of the problem too. Somehow I got the notion as a bairn that everything bad that happened was
my fault.
That if I’d been a better lass, my parents would have made a better life together. ’Twas Father’s
drinking
and Mother’s overriding ambition that caused their rift, not the doings of wee lasses like Catherine and Eglantine and me!”

Alex remained silent. His lips had formed a thin line and his eyes looked at her dully.

“No need to go all glassy-eyed!” she exclaimed. “I’m telling you why I’ve been so much trouble to you! From the very first, ’twas up to me to heed what I knew to be true: that you and I shouldn’t marry till we’d both given our hearts a chance to mend!”

Jane stopped pacing and faced Alex squarely, bare feet planted on the Turkish carpet, hands on hips. She gazed steadily at his face, which had grown ashen. His eyes had now assumed a haunted look. He looked tired and suddenly far older than his forty-six years.

“And then there’s
you
, yourself, Alexander Gordon,” Jane continued. “Sometimes I’d say to m’self these twenty-two years: ‘if only I could be a more compliant, more obedient wife, you’d not have shunned me when Thomas’s letter arrived on our honeymoon. If only I had done even more than I have to enhance your estate, or make your tenants respect me more, maybe
then
I could count on your love.’ But
our
problem, O husband mine… our problem from the moment we met is that you’ve never trusted or respected a single woman in your whole
life
—starting with your mother, who used your title and your estate for her own ends until she went to her grave. If only you could have seen I wasna like her… that your daughters—and certainly sweet-tempered Louisa—aren’t like her! But, of course, you never could… and there is nothing, absolutely
nothing
that’s happened here tonight that leads me to believe you ever would!”

Jane strode to the door exclaiming, “If—if—
if!
I’m sick to death of
if
’s!” She turned around, her hand on the knob. “The only ‘ifs’ in
my
future, my dear laddie, are going to be:
if I like it—I will do it!
”

And with that, she flung open the door, indicating with her outstretched hand that he should walk through it. “No. I will not come to Fochabers and have no future
of my own.
I will not come to Fochabers and have my daughters and myself treated like so much chattel!” Alex stared at her, all color drained from his cheeks.

“Alex…” Jane said, lowering her voice. “We still have much to share. We have the children… the good we’ve accomplished in the Highlands… but not
this
!” she finished, gesturing to the crumpled bed linens. “Not anymore.”

“Am I to believe my lady duchess no longer appreciates such carnal pleasures?” Alex asked sarcastically, his eyes darkening ominously. “The ‘Flower of Galloway’ isn’t yet a shriveled up old hag! Look at you!” he exclaimed, staring boldly at Jane’s cleavage, which showed above the dressing gown she had hastily draped around her naked form. “On the contrary, my guess is my good wife gets her satisfaction elsewhere these days… a stableboy, a politician, perhaps… even old Angus…”

Jane gasped and spun away from him.

“Get out of my sight!” she choked. “Your damned jealousy and distrust of everything in your rotten world will be the
death
of you, and of me!” She yanked open the bedroom door wider and turned to face her husband, her eyes filled with fury. “Be gone, you punishing Devil! Be
gone
!”

“I’ll be gone,” he growled, “but if I ever have evidence you’re taking your pleasure elsewhere, I swear by God, I’ll ruin you!”

“And what of that Bloodsucker of Gordon Castle?” Jane demanded, shaking with a rage that made her nearly faint. “You accuse me of doing what you do yourself with that fornicating slut!”

“That, my dear, is the joy of being a
duke
and not a duchess,” he said malevolently, crossing her threshold into the hall. “I do as I please. Good night, my sweet.”

Part 4